


if you try sometimes, well you just might find

by JenTheSweetie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, boys being stupid, sam is a good bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:42:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29751507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenTheSweetie/pseuds/JenTheSweetie
Summary: "What do you want?" Dean asks, at a red light.Sam sighs.  "I don't know, man. What do you want?""I don't know," Dean says.Nobody asks Castiel what he wants, because what they're talking about is food and Castiel doesn't eat food anymore.  The Winchesters have this conversation a lot, because they spend a lot of time on the road, and negotiation around food seems to be one of the most inescapably irritating parts of the human experience.  Castiel does not miss it.Castiel has a lot to learn about wants and needs.  His most recent lesson: Dean may need him, but that doesn’t mean hewantshim.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 18
Kudos: 165





	if you try sometimes, well you just might find

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed from The Rolling Stones. Thanks to Snapjack for the readthrough and cheerleading from way, WAY outside this fandom.
> 
> Nothing really sets this in any given era except the Lincoln Continental, but I would place sometime in S10 but with no Mark and no main plot getting in the way ;)

"What do you want?" Dean asks, at a red light.

Sam sighs. "I don't know, man. What do you want?"

"I don't know," Dean says.

Nobody asks Castiel what he wants, because what they're talking about is food and Castiel doesn't eat food anymore. The Winchesters have this conversation a lot, because they spend a lot of time on the road, and negotiation around food seems to be one of the most inescapably irritating parts of the human experience. Castiel does not miss it. 

"Burgers?" Dean says, finally and unsurprisingly.

"Whatever," Sam says.

They eat their burgers in silence, in the parking lot, watching the rain hit the windshield, and nobody seems happy about it. 

-

In the millennia he's been observing them, most of the men (and women) Castiel has seen are consumed with want. 

They have basic needs, of course - food, water, shelter, sex - but once humans figured out how to meet those, they moved on quickly to what else they could get. Castiel loves humanity but, he can dispassionately acknowledge, humans are selfish and covetous and greedy. They always want _more._ More sex, more love, more money, more power, gluttony and lust and envy and sloth and wrath and pride and all of it ultimately about wanting more than they absolutely _need_. 

Castiel has never judged humans for it - that was not his place - and after his years among them, _as_ them, he grew to understand. To sympathize, even, with wanting something you didn’t have. It is the natural state of humanity; they can’t help it.

He wonders, sometimes, what it means that the human he knows best is the one whose wants he understands least.

-

The hunt isn't going well. They'd found the werewolf they thought was responsible for the three women who'd been discovered with their hearts missing, put a silver bullet in him and burned the remains, and they weren't even back on the road before the alert came through on Sam's phone that there was another body, same MO, all the way across town. "A pack," Dean had grumbled, "how did we not know it was a pack?" 

They don't have any leads on the other werewolf, and they're all a little on edge about it. Castiel wishes vaguely that he had his own car with him, because being in the Impala at this moment is unpleasant.

By nightfall there's not much to be done - interviews will have to wait til morning, and it will be more useful to revisit all the crime scenes in the daylight - and Dean's barely turned off the car before he jumps out and says, "Going to get supplies."

"He means whiskey," Sam says darkly, when Dean is too far away to hear.

Castiel knows that Sam doesn't like how much his brother drinks, is unimpressed when he spots the emptying bottles around the bunker and their various motel rooms. Sam doesn't usually comment on it directly, just glares passive-aggressively and rolls his eyes and, hypocritically in Castiel's opinion, often joins his brother around the bottle when the mood strikes. Castiel doesn't actually see much difference between Dean when he's drinking and when he's sober, which he understands is a textbook sign of functional alcoholism, and he knows that means that Dean doesn't necessarily _want_ to drink - he needs to.

He said as much to Sam once, after a disparaging comment when Dean went back to the kitchen for yet another beer while Sam was still on his first, and Sam replied testily, "He doesn't _need_ it. He could stop if he wanted."

Castiel isn't sure about that. Addiction is complicated, for one thing, and for another thing Dean is a man of needs. 

Castiel knows Dean’s soul, and so he knows better than anyone - certainly better than Dean himself - that that soul is bound up in a very small number of central driving needs: the need to be useful; the need to help people in an effort to chip away at the bottomless pit of guilt and shame that dominates his psyche; the need, above _all_ else, to keep his brother safe. 

They aren't _wants_ ; they drive him the same way early men were driven by hunger and cold. Wants don’t impress themselves upon Dean the way they do among other men that Castiel knows. Yes, sometimes he wants a cheeseburger, and so he gets one; sometimes he wants to listen to Led Zeppelin, and so he overrules Sam's arguments; sometimes he wants the attention of a young woman, and so he goes up to one at a bar. But he doesn't _fight_ for those things; if he gets them, he takes them, and if he doesn't he moves on.

But over the years that Castiel has observed him, Dean's wants have been stripped down, minimized even further, subsumed over layers of need so deep that he can never rest, because the things Dean needs are impossible to obtain: he can’t capture them permanently, and so he exists in a constant state of needing them more. His nature is that of a servant, and his father built him up to serve a cause, so he needs to be serving it all the time. In that way, he is not as different from Castiel as he'd like to think.

More than once, Dean has told Castiel: _I need you_. Castiel isn't entirely sure what Dean thinks he's saying when he says this, and even less sure he likes the idea of being something on the list of things Dean Winchester needs, because more often than not, the things Dean needs are the very things that destroy him. 

-

When Dean comes back with the whiskey, Sam is in the shower. Dean is soaked again, wet from his trek to the liquor store in the rain, and Castiel stares down at the table while Dean shucks his jacket and jeans and puts on dry ones. He feels strange, these days, when they are on a case and he has nowhere to go; the Winchesters never make him feel like he shouldn't be there, sharing their space, but he sometimes worries that his welcome is more of a formality than a feeling. 

Dean turns on the TV, and Castiel is grateful for the distraction. The bottle sits on the counter, and the glass in Dean's hand is refilled before Sam comes out of the steamy bathroom. Sam doesn't comment, just sits at the table across from Castiel and opens his computer. He digs into the police records on the original three werewolf murders, and Castiel weighs in with unhelpful information about the case that they all already know. 

Sam closes his computer eventually, gets into bed and puts a pillow over his head, and Castiel glances at the window. On these occasions, when the Winchesters have to sleep and Castiel doesn't have anything to do, he often drives around, visits crime scenes and searches for omens, but tonight he has no car of his own and would have to do it on foot, and it's freezing and raining and he realizes he doesn't _want_ to. 

Want is very inconvenient. Castiel has had to adjust.

"I'll let you sleep," he says, because he doesn't want to be outside but he can tell from Sam's pillow and Dean's silence that they don't want him here either, and if he can help ease them at all he'll do it. 

"What?" Dean says, looking up at Castiel for the first time in an hour. 

"I'm going outside," Castiel says, nodding at the door. "I'll see you in the morning."

"It's raining," Dean says, and Castiel ignores him; humans often say things that do not require responses.

It _is_ raining, but there’s an awning that extends over the path that goes along the motel's rooms, and plenty of space to sit on the ground without getting wet. It's not exactly pleasant, but Castiel can ignore the cold and the damp well enough.

The door creaks open. “What the hell, Cas?”

Castiel glances up to meet Dean’s glare. “You’d prefer I not be in the room while you sleep.”

  
“Well, yeah, but it’s not - I mean it’s raining,” Dean says, gesturing around like it’s possible Castiel hasn’t noticed. “It doesn’t really matter where you are, man.”

“I know. It doesn’t matter. That’s why I’m outside.”

“So you _want_ to sit outside all night?”

  
“Not particularly,” Castiel says.

“Okay, so you want to come inside.”

  
“Dean,” Castiel says. “You don’t want me to, so I won’t.”

“You don’t know fuck all about what I want,” Dean snaps.

“Okay,” Castiel says. “So what _do_ you want?”

It’s a cruel question and Castiel knows it. Dean is less in touch with what he wants than any human Castiel has ever observed.

As if to prove it, Dean closes the door behind him, slides down the wall and settles himself on the ground next to Castiel. “I don’t know, Cas. I don’t fucking know.”

Castiel knows Dean doesn't know. He feels bad about asking, so he takes the bottle from Dean’s hand and drinks deeply in an attempt to demonstrate companionship, or maybe apology. Dean watches him, then takes the bottle back and raises it to his mouth. He barely even seems to notice the way it tastes, which Castiel knows cannot possibly be a good thing. 

“You ever think about,” Dean says, and stops. Takes another sip. “Huh.”

“What?” Castiel asks.

Dean looks at him. “What _do_ you think about?”

Castiel blinks. “You,” he says, stupidly, and then quickly continues, “and Sam. Humans. Angels. Demons. Hunting - ”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Dean says. He shakes his head. “Dunno why I even ask.”

“Were you expecting something more interesting?”

“Not really.” 

Castiel glances at the bottle, at Dean’s hunched shoulders. “You’re upset because we missed the second werewolf.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re… frustrated.”

“I said I’m fine,” Dean snaps. “Why are you being like this?”

  
“Like _what_?” Castiel says. “I’m already sitting on the ground in the rain, must I be silent too?”

  
“That!” Dean says. “That’s what I’m talking about! Nobody told you to sit out here.”  


“Nobody told you to either, but here you are.”

“I swear to - come on,” Dean says, and shakes his head. “Forget it, man, can’t we just hang out?”

Castiel feels his chest tighten, an annoying and autonomic human reaction that this body failed to discard even once he got his grace back. “I suppose.”

“Great,” Dean says. He hands Castiel the bottle, and Castiel takes another, longer drink. “Atta boy. Can you still get drunk?”

“Not easily enough,” Castiel grumbles. 

Dean chuckles, knocks his shoulder against Castiel’s. “Maybe you just gotta keep trying.”

“It would require more alcohol than you have on hand currently.”

“Then I’ll buy some more,” Dean says. He takes the bottle back and stares off across the drenched parking lot. It’s extremely ugly, so Castiel ignores it in favor of watching Dean. “Cas.”

“Yes, Dean.”

“Quit staring.”

“Why?” Castiel asks, surprising even himself.

“Why? Because it’s weird. Because it feels like you’re trying to get in my head.”

“I don’t read your mind anymore.”

“Yeah, I know, but staring is like - like the _human_ way of reading somebody’s mind, you know?”

“It’s not even remotely comparable to reading minds,” Castiel says, frowning.

“Well, it’s all we’ve got, so we do our best,” Dean says. “Like right now, your face is telling me that you’re pissed off.”

“I’m not ‘pissed off.’ Interpretation of faces seems to be an imprecise science.”

“Fuckin’ tell me about it,” Dean says. 

“ _Your_ face is saying you’re drunk.”

“Wow. There’s that angelic intellect. Smartest kid in the garrison, right?”

“Bite me,” Castiel says, and Dean laughs out loud, throws his head back with it and bobbles his whiskey and claps a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. 

“Hoo, boy. You’re something, you know that?” he says, his eyes bright. “Honestly, what the fuck would I do without you?”

“Probably most of the same things you do now,” Castiel says, even though he understands that the question was rhetorical. 

Dean snorts, squeezes Castiel’s shoulder one more time and then releases it, shaking his head and looking down at the cement as his smile fades. “I don’t know about that, man.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, because the weight of Dean’s pain is so obvious even when he tries to hide it, and Castiel wishes he could say something that could change any of it. 

“I don’t want you to sit outside in the rain all night, Cas,” Dean says, and when he looks up at Castiel from beneath his eyelashes he looks apologetic and hopeful and miserable.

“It’s dry here,” Castiel points out.

But Dean isn’t listening, or at least not closely, because his eyes have tracked down to Castiel’s lips and he’s leaning closer, and Castiel has the entire history of film in his head, he knows what happens next, knows that when it’s raining and someone’s drinking and they lean in close, he knows it’s -

It’s just a kiss. Castiel has heard the heavenly host singing for millennia, has felt the warmth of all the angels in heaven through his grace, has won battles against foes he never should have had a chance to beat. Kissing Dean isn’t anything like that at all. It’s too _human_ : the feel of lips against his, warm and slightly damp, and it shouldn’t seem like anything _special,_ not compared to Castiel’s eons of experience, the things he’s seen and done and created. 

Which is why it makes no sense at all that when Dean pulls away, Castiel absolutely cannot stop himself from leaning forward to kiss him again.

Dean doesn’t pull away then; he surges forward with a soft noise, opens his mouth and hesitantly swipes his tongue against Castiel’s, and Castiel has kissed people before but he knows now that all of those were just practice so that he would have a chance to get this one right. 

“Shit,” Dean murmurs against his lips. He rests his forehead to Castiel’s. “ _Shit_.”

“It’s okay,” Castiel says, though he doesn’t know exactly why.

“You sure?” Dean says, and when he looks at Castiel his eyes are - Castiel recognizes it as _afraid_ , but it’s such an unusual emotion to see on Dean that he almost misses it. 

“Dean,” Castiel says, “if this is something you need, we can - ”

“Yes,” Dean breathes, “I need you,” and then he’s kissing Castiel again.

It makes sense. Dean is a man of need. Lonely, discouraged, drunk; he needs the warmth of someone’s lips, of a body against him, the motions that make humans feel less alone, make them feel loved. The fact that it’s not Castiel that Dean wants, that it’s just something he _needs_ \- Castiel can handle that. He’s been catering to Dean’s needs for as long as he’s known the Righteous Man.

And anyway, he’s an angel of the lord, and he isn’t supposed to want things; the fact that he has grown to do so is irrelevant. 

Dean’s hands are in Castiel’s hair, and a sharp tug makes Castiel startle; Dean takes the opportunity to press kisses against his jaw down to his neck, sucks a bruise into the space below his ear that he could heal with a tendril of grace if he wanted to, which he does not. Castiel turns his body more fully toward Dean’s until they’re a tangle of limbs on the ground, Dean’s hands roving over Castiel’s coat, trying to get closer and finding that he can’t. “Cas,” he says, almost a moan, and Castiel pulls back. 

“We should move,” Castiel says, and Dean blinks at him, his eyes glazed with lust and whiskey. 

“Move?” he asks.

“We’re sitting on the ground,” Castiel says, and Dean looks around.

“Oh,” Dean says. “We - oh.” He looks around wildly. “Do you think any of these are open?” 

They push to their feet, and Castiel listens carefully at several doors in a row until he finds one that’s vacant. Dean pulls out a credit card and jimmies the lock open almost immediately, and Castiel follows him inside the dark room silently.

Castiel worries as they stand in the room, lit only by the moon and the cheap bulbs of the motel hallway, that moving to a second location has broken the spell. Dean isn’t even looking at him, he’s looking around the room, at the table, the chairs, the one large king bed, and Castiel regrets ever getting off the cold cement ground - 

“Fuck it,” Dean says, and then he’s pushing Castiel against the closed door and kissing him fiercely, and Castiel opens to him immediately, and soon their clothes are slipping to the floor, and then Dean is underneath him on the bed, and Dean’s head is thrown back as he gasps curses and blasphemies and the name he alone gave Castiel. 

When it’s over, Dean turns his face away, lets Castiel press his lips to Dean’s throat in the silence, and when Dean gets dressed and leaves he barely pauses at the door, says, “Night, Cas,” and closes it behind him.

\- 

The next day, Castiel can tell Dean doesn't want to talk about it. Dean wants so few things, and Castiel wants to give them to him when he can, so: they don't talk about it.

-

The second and, it turns out, _third_ werewolves aren’t that hard to find; Dean kills one with a silver bullet and Castiel impales the other on his angel blade, and the victims’ families won’t know what killed their loved ones but they won’t hurt anyone again. They dispose of the bodies and drive in a satisfied post-hunt silence the hour and a half back to where they left Castiel’s car across the state line, and when Castiel climbs out of the back seat Dean says, “We’ll call you if anything comes up, all right?”

“All right,” Castiel says, and the door’s barely shut before the Impala pulls away.

-

Castiel doesn’t usually sleep, but he does rest at times, when there is no work to be done and no one calling out for him in Heaven or on Earth. He likes to sit outside, in deep woods or beside rivers, on bustling streets in view of bright neon signs, leaning against his car on country backroads watching headlights going by every half an hour. Resting is usually pleasant, or at least neutral, but now he finds it aggravating, because the moment he is without purpose or plan all he thinks of is Dean.

It’s not unusual, his thinking about Dean - he is aware that he thinks about Dean a lot, because it is, of course, part of why he rebelled against Heaven - but there is a new twist to the thoughts now, a fresh uncertainty, an _urgency_ that Castiel finds… uncomfortable.

He knows, of course, that he will never be Dean’s priority the way Dean is his. Dean’s first priority has always been and will always be Sam, and that is one of the things that Castiel knows and loves best about him. After that, Dean cares for humanity as a whole - something he and Castiel have in common, a shared thread that has held them together when others have snapped - and somewhere below that, Castiel imagines, is where he himself falls on the list. Castiel doesn’t mind that, not at all, would never mind it; his love for Sam and his drive to help people is what makes Dean who he is.

No, what makes him unsure, right at this moment, is that for all the time he spends thinking of Dean, he suddenly realizes that he has no idea if Dean spends any time thinking of him at all. 

-

Things are quiet. It should be a good thing - of course it’s a good thing, but as he sits at a diner and watches the coffee he’s not drinking get cold Castiel thinks that he wouldn’t mind if there was _something_ \- a mission, or an angel in need, or even just a basic salt and burn. He remembers, in the past, spending decades, even centuries of time doing nothing at all but standing guard and preparing for battle. Now, the length of time it takes the Biggerson’s waitress to get his check feels interminable.

He waits three days and then calls Dean from southern Iowa. _This is Dean’s other, other cell_ , he hears, and then hangs up and dials Sam.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam says. “What’s going on?”

“Very little,” Castiel says. “Is Dean there?”

“Yeah, he’s here,” Sam says. “Did you want to… to talk to… oh. Uh, hang on.” There’s a muffled sound; Castiel hears Sam speak, then Dean’s deeper tones in the background. When Sam comes back to the phone, he sounds - different. “Hey, Cas? Look, um. Dean’s… busy.”

Castiel has been around humans long enough to recognize the polite lie. “I understand.”

“Did, uh - did something happen?” Sam’s voice drops lower. “Did you get into an argument?”

“No,” Castiel says, answering only the second question.

“Huh. I mean, he seems - I don’t know. Look, I’m sure it’s nothing, but - ”

“Thank you for speaking to me, Sam,” Castiel says. “I’ll let you go.”

-

Sam calls a week later, says there's some signs in Chattanooga of a couple of witches that they could use his help with, if he's interested. Of course Castiel’s interested; Dean will be there, and Sam will be there, and so by definition he is interested. He wonders if Sam knows how little else truly _interests_ him. Sam himself has a variety of interests, and likely could not relate. Dean could, though. Dean is interested only in hunting, and in Sam. And sometimes in Castiel, when he needs him, whatever that means.

Castiel meets them in Tennessee to help investigate the mysterious deaths, and they discover a small coven living in an apartment building not far from the river. The leader of the coven is inexperienced, her followers barely out of their teens, and after the one in charge takes a hostage and Dean is forced to kill her, the others beg forgiveness and pile their hex bags and books for the Winchesters to burn. It’s open and shut, by their standards, and Castiel suspects fairly quickly that Sam did not actually think Castiel was necessary for this particular hunt, a suspicion strengthened when Sam says cheerfully, “Well, now that that’s taken care of, should we get dinner?” Dean shrugs like he doesn’t care either way, but they leave their cars at the motel and walk to a bar.

It’s nice, actually, Castiel thinks, in that imprecise and mostly meaningless way humans use the word “nice”. Sam orders nachos, and Dean actually laughs when Castiel tries a jalapeno and declares it “molecularly aggressive.” When Sam goes up to the bar and brings back three shots, he thinks of Sam glaring at Dean's half-empty bottle of whiskey a few weeks ago and wonders why humans constantly do things that are absolutely counter to their best interests, to their _needs_ , in favor of what they want in any given moment. 

Of course, it’s absurd for him to wonder about such hypocrisy, Castiel thinks as he watches Dean tip back his head to take the shot, because he does it too, is doing it _right now_ , and who is he to judge?

“So, Cas,” Sam says, “what’ve you been up to?”

Castiel thinks of the hours he spent a week ago sitting by a bubbling stream in a park and considering the shape of Dean’s hands. “Not much.”

“See any good movies lately?” Dean asks, digging into the basket of fries at Castiel’s elbow. 

Castiel knows Dean is teasing, but he replies, “Not since The Empire Strikes Back.”

Dean’s eyes go wide with surprise and then laughter, and Sam snorts, because this is a familiar debate; Dean genuinely thinks Return of the Jedi is a good movie, and Sam is fond of giving him a hard time about it. Castiel thinks that sometimes the Winchesters forget that he knows about their jokes, keeps track of the things they care about. He wonders how often they think of him as their friend, and how often they think of him as all the other things he is or has ever been.

“You’re full of shit, Cas,” Dean says. “No taste. They didn’t raise you right upstairs.”

“Dean, nobody likes Return of the Jedi,” Sam says.

“It is _literally_ considered one of the best movies of all time.”

“Where are you even _getting_ that? Is it on a list or something? Just because it’s the first movie _you_ ever saw in theaters doesn’t mean - ”

“It’s a goddamn _classic_ , Sam, I swear, and this is a new low, dragging Cas into this - ”

“Cas dragged himself into this,” Sam says, smacking Cas on the arm. “Tell him, Cas.”

"The Ewoks are stupid,” Castiel says, parroting an argument he’s heard Sam make several times previously, and Sam bursts out laughing.

“You’re a dead man,” Dean says, pointing at Sam, and Castiel smiles into his beer.

They go back to the motel after dinner, and Castiel trudges into the room behind the brothers, not realizing until he’s closing the door behind him that he has no reason to be there. The case is over, Castiel has his own car, and the Winchesters won’t go to sleep for a few hours, probably, so Castiel is about to turn around and leave when Dean says, “Want a beer, Cas?”

“Yes,” Castiel says immediately. He takes the one Dean hands him and watches while Dean gets his own.

“Dibs on the shower,” Sam says, grabbing his bag and heading into the bathroom.

“Whatever,” Dean says. He settles onto the lumpy sofa, kicks his feet up and leans back. 

The shower turns on, and Castiel realizes he has to say something. No. He _wants_ to say something, now that he’s alone with Dean for the first time since they - well. But the truth is that Castiel does not know how to have this kind of conversation. There's obviously no angel equivalent, and nothing from TV or movies seems quite right either. 

So he goes, instead, with language Dean understands.

“Do you.... _need_ anything from me, Dean?” he says.

Dean jerks his head toward him. “What? No.”

“Are you sure?” Castiel asks.

“Yeah I’m sure,” Dean snaps, taking a swig of beer. “I don't need anything from you, Cas. You hear me?”

Castiel meets his eyes. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Dean repeats, frowning at him.

They stare at each other.

“You can head out, if you want,” Dean says, grabbing the remote and turning on the television across the room. “Case is done, but since we’re paid up for the night we’ll probably crash here and drive home in the morning.”

“Oh,” Castiel says, recognizing the dismissal. It’s abrupt, but then, it’s Dean. “Of course. Tell Sam I said goodbye.”

“Uh huh,” Dean says, but he’s already turned away, eyes on the TV, and Castiel leaves without a word. 

-

Dean texts a week later for a case; they’ve tracked a mother changeling down to Tucson and realized too late that it hopped a plane to Detroit. Sam’s looking at plane tickets but if Castiel is closer - and of course he is, because Castiel is almost always close to Lebanon, Kansas and Lebanon is closer to Detroit than Tucson is by a lot - if Castiel is closer, maybe he can go check it out. They’ll make sure to get the kids they found down in Arizona turned over to the authorities and meet him up there when they can. 

  
Castiel spends half a day getting to Michigan and another half a day tracking a lead that goes cold. He calls Dean, but Sam picks up, puts him on speakerphone and asks questions and says, “It’s okay, Cas, we’ll find her,” and Dean just grunts.

The Winchesters are still three hours away when Castiel hunts the changeling down to a school gymnasium and kills it with his blade before it can snatch the girl it was after, but for reasons he decides not to evaluate too closely he waits to tell them it’s already done until they call him from twenty minutes out of town. “What do you mean, done?” Dean barks.

“I killed her,” Castiel says. 

“Dammit, we’ve been on the road for twenty hours,” Dean says. 

“Should I apologize for completing the hunt?” Castiel asks, irritated.

“No, of course not,” Sam soothes. “Look, let’s just get a drink and get some sleep, Dean. We’ll find something else in the morning.”

“Whatever,” Dean says. 

“I’m at a bar already,” Castiel says, which is not quite true, but he’s sitting in his car across the street from one that he identified as the type the Winchesters prefer. “I’ll order you both a beer.”

Dean seems annoyed when he and Sam join Castiel at his table, but he takes the beer and drinks half of it in a huge gulp that leaves Sam rolling his eyes. “I’m just pissed I didn’t get to kill it,” he explains when Castiel raises his eyebrows. 

“I apologize for taking away the privilege,” Castiel says dryly. “I thought it was more important to protect the child.”

“Of course it was,” Dean says, but he still looks moody. “That thing was fucked up.”

  
“Well, it’s gone now,” Sam says. “Thanks to Cas. Hey, maybe you don’t need us after all.”

“I do,” Cas says, immediately, and Sam chuckles but Dean isn’t paying attention. He’s looking around the bar like he’s searching for something, and Castiel can’t imagine what it might be - he would sense if there was something demonic or otherwise dangerous in the establishment - until he follows Dean’s gaze to a group of women clustered across the room. 

“I’ll get the next round,” Dean says, standing up abruptly and taking his half-full beer with him.

Sam rolls his eyes and asks Castiel about the end of the hunt, tells him about a mother changeling they’d hunted years ago; Dean has told him the story before but he listens attentively, and then Sam talks about a zombie they hunted a few months ago in Arkansas, a couple of vetalas they tracked to Minneapolis. Sam glances at the bar a couple of times, but Castiel’s back is to it, and so he doesn’t notice anything until Sam jerks his head up, looking startled, and says, “Dean.”

Castiel turns to see Dean with his hand on the small of a young woman’s back, guiding her toward the table. “Here’s your beers,” Dean says, dropping two on the table and then grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. “And I’ll be taking this.”

“Uh,” Sam says, narrowing his eyes, “what - ”

“This is Chelsea,” Dean says, gesturing at the woman, who smiles politely, “and she’s a _huge_ fan of classic cars. Ain’t that right?”  


“Totally,” Chelsea says, grinning at Dean.

“So I’m gonna go show her the Impala,” Dean says, winking at her. “I mean, we’ll probably focus on a few _key_ areas, I’m thinking we start with the back seat - ”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam says, his voice heated, and Castiel tears his eyes away from Chelsea to look at Sam. Sam looks _furious_.

“What, Sammy, cool your jets,” Dean said.

“Are you _serious_ right now?” Sam hisses.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Dean says. “Chelsea, you wanna wait out front? Let me talk to my brother for a second.”

“Whatever,” Chelsea says, shooting Sam a weird look and pressing through the crowd.

“Dean, this is,” Sam hisses, and glances at Cas, “I mean, are you _really_ \- Cas is _right_ here, you _dick_.”

Dean’s eyes widen slightly. “Cas doesn’t - Cas doesn’t care,” he says, recovering quickly. “Why would Cas - you don’t care, Cas, right?”

“You’re unbelievable,” Sam says. 

“Sam,” Castiel says quietly, even though he has no idea what to say next, no idea what to say at all. “It’s okay.”

“Exactly,” Dean says. “Jesus, Sam, you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“I don’t know what _I’m_ talking about?” Sam snaps.

“Dude, what do you _want_ from me?” Dean says, like Castiel isn’t even there.

And that’s when Castiel decides that what _he_ wants is to leave, so he does, setting down his beer and heading for the door without another word.

-

His phone rings twice that night and then he turns it off, drives until sunrise and then goes into a Biggerson’s and buys a coffee and reads the paper. When he turns his phone back on, there is a voicemail from Sam. _"Hey, Cas. I'm really sorry if I - I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. If you were uncomfortable, I don’t even know if you were, I wasn't trying to - look, call me back when you get this. Dean is - just call me back, okay?"_

Castiel considers not calling back, but ultimately realizes that he will, of course, speak to Sam again at some point, so there's not much point putting it off. "Cas!" Sam says after five rings, and he's a little winded. "Sorry, I just had to go outside the bunker, Dean was - anyway. How's it going?"

"You said I should call," Castiel said.

"Right," Sam said. "You should come home. I mean back. You should come back.”

Castiel freezes for an amount of time so short that it would not be detectable to humans. "Why?"

"Because Dean's an asshole," Sam said. 

"Dean's not an asshole," Castiel says. "Any more than usual."

"Well, yeah he - Cas," Sam says. "Last night. Was that - did that - you were okay with that?"

Castiel considers it. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you and Dean," Sam said, and paused. "There's a thing, right? I mean there's always been a thing, but lately - there's _really_ a thing. Like an actual thing. Right?"

Castiel knows that humans use the word “thing” to mean a wide variety of topics, but he has a feeling he can guess what Sam’s referring to this time. "Did Dean tell you that?" 

"Call it a hunch," Sam said. "I know my brother pretty well, and I know you okay too. Look, if Dean told you not to tell me, you don't have to - "

"Dean didn't tell me not to tell you," Castiel said. "He didn't tell me anything. There's nothing to tell, Sam."

"Really? There's... nothing?"

Castiel can hear the disbelief in Sam's voice; Sam is, after all, very smart. "There was... one thing. One time."

"One time," Sam repeated. "You and Dean had... a one night stand?"

"You know I’m not an expert at the implications behind colloquialisms, but yes, I believe so," Castiel says, a little bit helplessly.

"So he actually said that? He said - this is a one time thing? Like you and him - just the one time?"

"No," Castiel said. "But it's only _been_ a one time thing, so it must only _be_ a one time thing."

"Cas," Sam says. "Listen. I can't read Dean's mind. But I just... can't see it being a one time thing. With _you_ , I mean. It’s _you_ , right?”

“I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.”

  
“Okay, but I mean - even if it wasn’t a _huge_ thing, I mean I don't know for _sure_ but - look, he didn't say _anything_?"

"He said he didn't need me," Castiel says. He feels uncertain, like he's stepped to the edge of a cliff and isn't sure he'd be able to fly if he stepped off. "That's all he said."

"Well, Dean says a lot of things," Sam says. "Look, Cas, I'm not trying to get in the middle - "

"There's no middle to get into," Castiel says. 

" - but I think you and Dean, like, have to _talk_. He's not going to like it, hell, you're probably not going to like it, but do you like what's going on right now?"

"Sam, in all honesty I don't _know_ what's going on right now, but I don’t know that talking to Dean is going to change that," Castiel says tiredly. He's _tired_. He’s always tired, has essentially been tired continuously since the years he spent fighting through Hell to reach the Righteous Man, but right now he feels tired in a specifically _human_ way. _Fucking over it_ , Dean might call it.

“All right, Cas, all right,” Sam says. “I hear you. I can talk to Dean if you - ”

“Don’t,” Castiel says instantly. “Sam. Please don’t.”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Yeah, okay. He wouldn’t - you’re right. I won’t say anything.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says. “I mean it. It will all - be okay.”

Sam sighs quietly. “I know it will, Cas. It’s just that I think it could be _better_ than okay.”

Castiel doesn’t know what to say to that, so he does what Dean taught him to do - hangs up without another word.

-

There are demonic omens in Ohio.

“What else is new? Ohio sucks,” Dean says, his voice a little further away through Sam’s speakerphone. “Think you can take care of it without us?”

“Come on, Dean, we’re not doing anything else,” Sam says. 

“What, we can’t take a vacation once in a while?”

  
“When the hell have we taken a vacation?” Sam says. “Text us the address, Cas, we’ll be there in the morning.”

-

It’s a crossroads demon gone rogue, Cas determines. He’s running a whole scheme, paying lowlifes to bring in desperate people willing to trade their souls for anything, an eternity in hell for next month’s rent or a couple hits. “We’ve seen shit like this before,” Dean says under his breath when they figure out which bar one of the lackeys frequents. “Scumbags.” 

“All demons are scumbags,” Castiel says. 

“Yeah, but these poor fucks aren’t even getting anything good out of their deals,” Dean says. “A baggie of blow for your soul? They’re preying on desperation, man.”

“Need drives people to do strange things,” Castiel says evenly, not meeting Dean’s eyes.

“Ain’t that the truth.” Dean throws back the last of his beer, musses his hair, stands up from the table and shoots a fake grin at Castiel. “Catch you on the flip side, Cas.”

Castiel rubs his thumb along his angel blade and watches as Dean walks clumsily up to the bar, knocking into both a man and a barstool before slumping up against it. “‘Nother round, please,” he slurs to the bartender. “Put it on my tab.”

“You’re not running a tab,” the bartender says, eyeing Dean. “And you still ain’t paid me for the last two rounds.”

“Oh, come on, I’m good for it,” Dean says cheerfully, and Castiel thinks of the half-empty bottle of whiskey in Dean’s hand while they sat in the rain.

“I’m not sure you are,” the bartender grunts. “So you pay up, or head on home.”

“Look, man,” Dean says, “it’s payday tomorrow, right? So I’ll get you back then. Just one more.”

“Nobody drinks free here, pal.”

Dean throws his hands up and looks around at the other men and women filling the barstools. “Anybody willing to cover me one round? Maybe two, but I swear, honest to god, I’m good for it. Left my wallet at home is all, I can go get it, even - ”

“I think I could spot you a round,” one man says, sidling up to Dean’s side, and Dean grins broadly and claps a hand on the man’s shoulder.

“A scholar and a gentleman,” he says, slurring prominently. 

The man smiles back at him, then pays for a drink.

Castiel watches while he pays for a second, then a third; Dean drinks them quickly, talks about sports and the weather until they’re empty, and then he turns to the man and says, “Well, it’s been real, but I should get going. Don’t want the old ball ‘n’ chain getting worried, am I right?”

“I thought you said you were good for it,” the man says quietly.

“I am, dude,” Dean says. “Look, like I said, payday’s tomorrow so why don’t I give you my number and - ”

“Why don’t you come with me and we’ll call it even,” the man says. 

“Come where?” Dean asks.

“You can do a favor for a friend of mine,” the man says, nodding toward the door. “He’s just around the block. Won’t take more than a minute. We’ll have another drink, even.”

“If you say so, buddy,” Dean says, grabbing his jacket and following the man out the door.

Castiel stares down at his bottle until the door swings shut behind them, then bolts for the back exit. By the time he gets to the sidewalk, Dean and the other man are halfway down the block, and Sam’s keeping pace with them across the street. 

It’s a short walk to the mostly abandoned office complex down the road, and Castiel’s not surprised it’s close to the hunting grounds - this operation clearly isn’t the work of one of Hell’s top talents - and he watches from the shadows as Dean follows the man into the farthest office, ignoring the “For Lease” sign hanging near the glass door.

Across the street, Sam jerks his head toward the back alley, and Castiel nods as Sam jogs around to the exit in the back. Castiel himself creeps up to the front, lets his blade drop into his palm and then pushes on the door.

It opens for him easily, and he steps inside. The place reeks of sulfur, and it’s dark in the front lobby. Castiel isn’t sure what it used to be - a real estate agency, maybe, or a tax preparer - but it’s empty now, just desks and chairs and frosted glass offices branching off in several directions. Down one hall, Castiel can see lights, and he follows them, stepping carefully on the carpeted floor.

“ - kind of op you running here?” Dean’s saying, his voice still exaggeratedly slurred. “What’m I gonna be signing for?”

“Just a formality,” the man from the bar says. They’re in a large conference room, and Castiel can’t see their faces but he can see their feet below the frosted glass, four sets, Dean’s and the man from the bar and two more. He doesn’t know if either of the others are demons, and he pauses around the corner, listening. 

“Formality for what?” Dean asks.

“Just so you can get what you need, pal. Don’t worry about it.”

“Maybe I _want_ to worry about it.”

“Well, maybe you should have thought of that before you decided you needed that last drink. Man, drunks are fucking easy, right?” the man says, and one of the others in the room chuckles. 

“So this is your thing, huh?” Dean says, his voice suddenly losing its slur. “Taking advantage of people who need something.”

“It’s just business,” the guy responds. “Why don’t you take a seat and wait for - oh, here he comes.”

There’s movement down the hall, several pairs of footsteps, and Castiel swiftly ducks behind a cubicle. The office door swings open, and he hears a new voice say, “All right, we got a basic alcohol package here for - oh, shit. Are you fucking kidding me? You brought me a _Winchester_?”

“A what?” the first guy says, confused.

“At least tell me you got the other one too,” the demon snarls, and Castiel sprints down the hall.

By the time he pushes into the glass-walled room, one of the demons is falling to the floor as Dean yanks Ruby’s knife out of his chest. He spins around and throws a fist into the face of one of the humans, and Castiel takes the opportunity to drive his blade into the back of the nearest demon.

“Unbelievable,” the third demon says, his eyes flashing black. “It’s impossible to find decent employees these days.”

“Yeah, hiring seems like a real bitch,” Dean says, and then the demon flings him up against the wall. 

“Run,” Castiel says to the two startled-looking human accomplices huddled in the corner. “Get _out_!”

The humans take off, and there’s a commotion down the hall - Castiel hears a crack and a scream, the sizzle of holy water hitting a demon, a muffled grunt that sounds like Sam - and he loses a second trying to sense how many there are, trying to figure out if Sam needs him. 

It’s a second he regrets when he turns back around and sees the demon, still pinning Dean halfway up the wall, but now with a hand around his throat, squeezing the life out of him with inhuman strength. Dean is scrabbling at his hands desperately, and when Castiel takes a step forward, the demon throws his other hand out and stops him. 

“You think it’s easy to set up an op like this under Crowley’s nose?” the demon hisses, clearly straining with effort. “It’s not. I’m not as stupid as you think I am. You’re not taking me down that fucking easy - ”

But Castiel isn’t listening, not when Dean’s eyes are wide and he can’t draw breath, and he breaks the demon’s hold and raises his blade, drives it through the demon’s back cleanly and watches the light burst from his eyes.

Castiel wrenches his knife out of the demon’s back as it releases Dean and jumps forward to catch him before he slumps to the ground. 

“Dean,” he says, and Dean leans against him and gasps for air.

“‘M okay,” he rasps, his hand gripped tight into Castiel’s shirt. Castiel holds him up as he sucks in another breath, presses his forehead to Dean’s temple, and Dean relaxes into it, burying his face in Castiel’s neck and holding him back just as hard, and Castiel hadn’t actually thought Dean was going to die but that doesn’t mean he won’t enjoy feeling the life run through him, warm and strong. For a moment, they breathe together.

“Guys?” Sam says, appearing in the doorway, and that’s that; Dean jerks away, rubbing his throat and picking up his dropped knife, tucking it into his waistband and looking around at the bodies.

“Looks like we got ‘em,” he grunts, and marches out of the room.

Sam’s eyes follow him and then dart back to Castiel. “Cas - ”

“All is well,” Castiel says, and wipes his angel blade on a fallen demon’s shirt.

They call in an anonymous tip to the local police, then trudge down the dark street in silence, a quarter mile back to where they left their cars outside the bar, Castiel’s Continental tucked right up against the back bumper of the Impala. 

“Guess we’ll see you around,” Dean grunts, opening up the door to the Impala. 

“Dean,” Sam says, sharply. 

  
“What?” Dean says, digging in his pocket for the keys.

“What is _with_ you, man?” Sam says. 

“What do you mean, what’s with me? The demons are dead and I want to go home, so let’s get in the car and - ”

“You can’t even say goodbye to Cas like a normal person anymore?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Bye, Cas. There, everybody happy?”

“Dean, you’ve barely said two words to him in weeks.”

“Sam,” Castiel says, warningly, “it’s - ”

“Cas, come on, he’s being a dick!” Sam says. 

“You want to walk home?” Dean barks at his brother.

“It’s _Cas_. You can’t just - ”

“Sam, _drop it_ ,” Dean snaps. 

“You can’t just sleep with your best friend and pretend it never happened,” Sam finishes loudly.

No one says anything for a minute. Dean stares down at his hand, still gripping the driver’s side door. Castiel can tell Sam is glaring, but he can’t look away from the breath puffing out of Dean’s mouth and turning to condensation in the brisk night air. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Sam,” Dean says finally, his voice dangerously quiet.

“Okay, maybe I don’t,” Sam says, throwing his hands up. “So if there’s nothing wrong, why don’t you ride with Cas back to the motel and I’ll follow in his car?”

Castiel contributes, “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“What he said,” Dean says, jerking a thumb. “I don’t want - ”

“Dean, I don’t really care what _you_ want,” Sam says. He strides up to Castiel and holds out his hand, palm up. “Cas?”

Castiel looks between Dean, who looks mutinous, and Sam, who looks insistent. He hands over the keys.

Dean’s in the Impala immediately, and Castiel exchanges one last glance with Sam before he goes around the car and gets into the passenger side. Dean waits until Sam’s in the other car before he pulls away from the curb sharply and heads back toward the highway.

They drive in silence for five, ten miles. Castiel assumes that Dean intends to wait out the entire ride back; he has seen Dean stay furiously silent for significantly longer than the twenty minutes between the bar and their motel. In retrospect, Castiel wishes that he had ridden with Sam. 

There are only a few minutes left in the drive when Dean clears his throat. “Look, Sam wants us to talk? Let’s talk. I don’t know why Sammy has to insert himself into everything, but - ”

“He’s not inserting himself,” Castiel says irritably. “It’s Sam. He’s part of everything to do with you. And he’s my friend too, you know.”

“I know,” Dean says, glaring out the windshield. “So. I’m guessing this is about what happened last month.”

Castiel, who has thought of little else in the intervening weeks, asks, “What happened last month, Dean?”

“Don’t play innocent, Cas,” Dean says. 

“Then don’t treat me like an idiot,” Castiel says. 

Dean tilts his head as if to say _Fair_. He clears his throat. “So, you wanna say something?”

“Not when you are clearly so opposed to having a conversation about it, no.”

“Jesus fucking - Cas, come on. I thought it would be easier, is all.”

“Easier?” Castiel says, staring out the passenger window.

“If we - didn't talk about it. That way, I figured, if you regretted it, it could just - not come up.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “And what if I didn't regret it?”

“Then I figured you'd tell me.”

“I asked you if you needed me. You said no.”

“Cas,” Dean says, and there’s something in his voice that Castiel _hates_. “That’s my fucking _point_.”

“What do you mean?” Castiel asks.

“I mean we treat each other like shit,” Dean says. “And then most of the time you leave. And then you come back, and I know it's because I tell you I need you, and it's like, when it’s the job, heaven and hell and all that, yeah, I'm gonna keep asking, but with - with two people, with _sex_ , that's not how it’s supposed to work, you know? I know you’re not, like, some virginal kid or whatever, but you don’t sleep with people just because they say they need you, so whatever I said, we gotta put that on the backburner. That’s not a reason, okay? Jesus, you know better than that.” 

“Dean,” Castiel says, slowly, “did you ever consider what _I_ wanted?”

“I mean, you don't want - _stuff_.”

Castiel squints. “You think I have no preferences?”

“No, I know you - but when you want something it’s to kill a fucking archangel or save the world or whatever. You don't want, like, normal stuff.”

“Normal stuff?" Castiel repeats, quietly, dangerously. "You think I consider the man I rebelled against Heaven for to be _normal stuff_?"

Dean shoots him a look. "But not - not like that.”

“Bobby was right,” Castiel said. "You _are_ a self-absorbed son of a bitch."

Dean laughs weakly. 

“I’m serious,” Castiel says. “You have got to be completely obsessed with your own navel-gazing inferiority complex to make such an inaccurate assumption.”

“Okay,” Dean says, and presses his lips together. “What the fuck are you _saying_ , Cas?”

“I’m saying I want you,” Castiel says. “And I’m angry with you because you didn’t bother to ask me, and with myself because I didn’t try to tell you.”

There’s a long silence. Dean signals, gets off the highway, pulls into the motel parking lot. The Continental pulls in behind them and drives to the other side of the lot, and they sit quietly and watch while Sam gets out of the car and turns the key in the lock, glances back at the Impala and then closes the motel door behind him. 

Dean turns to Castiel. “I guess we both fucked up.”

“I suppose so,” Castiel says.

Dean runs a hand through his hair. “Cas, about the woman from the bar - you know that didn’t mean anything, right? I was just - I was being - “

“An ass,” Castiel finishes.

“Yeah, that. And I was trying to show you I didn’t need you. You know, that I didn’t - expect anything from you.”

“Heavy handed, perhaps, but effective,” Castiel says.

The silence hangs. Castiel thinks that, perhaps, things between them can go back to normal, or as normal as they ever are.

But he needs to know.

“Do you,” Castiel says, slowly, “want _me_?”

Dean opens his mouth. Looks away, shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter what I want.”

“It matters to me,” Castiel says.

Dean looks at him, his face blank and his jaw tight, but Castiel knows this man’s soul and he knows when he’s trying to _feel_ less than he is. “I don’t get to _want_ things, Cas. Not after everything I’ve done. I think this is a pretty clear example of how much I fuck up things I - ”

Castiel leans forward. “Dean,” he says, trying to show Dean everything with just that one word, and it must work because then Dean is staring at him, leaning forward, his hand coming up to rest on the side of Castiel’s neck like he can’t stop it. “What,” he says, his lips so close to Dean’s he can almost taste them, “do you _want_?”

“You,” is all he says against Castiel’s lips, and Castiel knows it means _I’m sorry_ and _please_ _stay_ and, yes, _I need you_ , and it’s never going to be perfect but Castiel wants him back so much that he supposes they’ll just have to figure it out.

-

The next time he leaves he’s only gone two days before Dean texts him: _You busy?_

Castiel considers it. He’s looking into a vengeful spirit in Toledo that he’s starting to think might be just an escalating series of teenage pranks. _No_ , he texts back.

_Come back to the bunker when you can_.

Dean needs him. He gets in the car.

When he arrives at the bunker, Sam is in the library, a stack of books next to his computer. “Hey, Cas,” he says. “How’s it going?”

“Good,” Castiel says, and means it beyond pleasantries. “Things are good.”

“Good,” Sam repeats with an amused smile. “Hey, Dean told me you guys - I mean, not the details or anything, obviously, but - you’re good, right?”

“I believe so,” Castiel says. “Thank you, Sam. For everything.”

“You don’t need to thank me for kicking Dean’s ass into gear,” Sam says, rolling his eyes and going back to his laptop. “He’s in his room, by the way.”

Castiel nods and leaves Sam to his work, and finds Dean in his room with his music on so loud that he doesn’t hear Castiel’s approach; instead Castiel catches him facing away, nodding his head and folding up a black undershirt that’s seen better days, and Castiel watches him silently for a few seconds before he says, “Hello, Dean.”

Dean spins around. “Oh. Hey. Didn’t hear you come in.”

“You’re not usually so easy to sneak up on,” Castiel says. “What do you need?”

“Huh?” Dean says. “Hang on a sec - ” He crosses the room, turns the music down and then turns back to Castiel. “What’d you say?”

“You told me to come as soon as possible,” Castiel says. “I assume there’s something you need.”

“Oh,” Dean says. “I, uh - no. There’s nothing. I just - I wanted to see you.”

And then he gives Castiel a sheepish grin, shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs.

“Oh,” Castiel says, and smiles. “I wanted to see you too.”


End file.
